Son of the Desert
by La Feu Eterne
Summary: Harry was raised an Emerson. Ramses Emerson knew that Harry stood between two worlds. "The most beautiful objects I take,  I keep for myself." Ramses will not easily release Harry to the wizarding world that turned its back on him. Warning: slash.


**AN. The discerning reader will note that certain persons appear somewhat younger than in the original narrative. This is indeed the case – it was inconvenient for me to be historically – literally? – accurate. Therefore, the reader will find that, at the time of the rescuing of David, Ramses was 8 and Nefret 11 years old, with David being 10. For those who decry such plot devices as unrealistic, I am a firm believer in the ratiocinative powers of the inimical Ramses, and trust that he was fully capable of such feats as single-handedly deciphering the Rosetta stone as a toddler, solving Fermat's last theorem and the like. Ramses is a wizard, born from a line of squibs, the Emersons.**

**Also, for the purposes of this story, though it is set in the modern world (we must have our conveniences), we shall pretend that Muggle society as a whole retained at least a few Victorian characteristics. There will be other inconsistencies in the timeline, but these are the most important. **

**The tale begins at the time David is undergoing treatment for his various injuries. The family is on board the dahabeeyah (boat) in Egypt. David has just been rescued from his servitude to Abd er Rassul, the most skilled forger of antiquities in Egypt, by the Emersons, a family of noted Egyptologists. The point of view we are observing is that of Mrs. Amelia Peabody Emerson.**

**Pronunciation of Altair:**

**Arabic: ul-thay-er**

**English: all-tare**

My goodness, I thought. Not even my own redoubtable offspring, at his most stone-pharaonic, had ever been so violently opposed to actually _remaining_ in his sickbed. This young David appeared downright incensed at being bedridden, going so far as to spout certain epithets whose meaning I pretended to be ignorant of at my dear spouse, the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other age, Radcliffe Emerson. My husband's sapphirine eyes twitched spastically at the desire, however misplaced, to laugh at the boy, while the handsome cleft in his chin positively _quivered_.

Shaking myself from my contemplation of my husband's attributes, which are at their most magnificent when he is in the grip of some strong emotion, I returned my attention to the injured boy attempting to escape Daoud's kindly yet inexorable grip. I frowned. This was not the petulant impatience an active youth expressed towards the prospect of immobility. No, there was an urgency, almost a feel of panic, to his actions.

"Stop a moment, Daoud," I commanded. "Let the boy speak of _why_ he wishes to leave so swiftly and endanger himself again."

With a furious glare at Daoud and myself, David's words burst forth in a flood of incensed Arabic. "I must return to my master's house, Sitt Hakim! I am not insulting you – I am most grateful for your help – but I must go back. I am not going back to his work, but to my brother. I cannot leave him in that place! Without me to make his statues, Abd er Rassul will sell him to el Gharbi – he has sworn it! You say you are good and this man" - here, he threw a glance of utmost contempt at Daoud – "says that you never allow harm to be done to an innocent. Is a child of five guilty of great evil, then, that you will not let me save him?"

My dear reader, I cannot express the horror that went through my being at his words. To think that any man would be so cruel as to make a child slave away for him under threat of giving his brother away to a procurer was beyond vile. A glance at Emerson showed me that I was not mistaken in my interpretation; my husband's face was bloodless with fury. Abdullah looked murderous at the thought of a grandson he hadn't known to exist being thus abused. Even Ramses, for all that my son pretends to be emotionless, had his fists clenched with rage. I did not doubt that he and his sister, our adopted daughter Nefret, were perfectly well aware of el Gharbi's revolting profession. Daoud, soft-hearted soul that he was, had tears in his eyes and attempted to embrace David. Exclaiming in impatience, David shoved his arms away. This spurred us all into action.

"My boy," murmured Emerson, in the quiet tones he used at his most dangerous, "do not fear. If you tell us where your brother is, I will go myself and bring the child here. Abd er Rassul is no match for the Father of Curses. If he tries to prevent my taking the boy, I will kill him."

While Emerson was speaking, I could not quite stop myself from feeling a trifle weak at the knees. Now that he was cleaned up somewhat, David proved to be a handsome lad beneath the dirt and bruises. Any sibling of his was bound to have inherited similar good looks. To think of a beautiful child, only a little while out of his toddlerhood, at the mercy of el Gharbi's customers would have upset a stronger constitution than mine. We had to rescue the boy at once.

David looked at Emerson uncertainly. I could not blame the lad – he had every right to be wary of promises made by male figures of authority. It was Ramses' little nod that convinced his newly-sworn blood brother to accept Emerson's plan. Haltingly, he began to describe his brother.

"His name is Altair. He is quite small, he barely reaches my waist, but he is very fast. If he sees you, he will run and hide in the harem. My master has ordered him to never be seen by strangers, or he will be punished, so he usually does things indoors during the day. If you ask my master's chief wife and tell her you are there to help him, she will give him to you. She came up with a plan that if ever one of us was able to escape, we would be able to send a trusted messenger for the other. Ask her if she wishes to set the eagle free. She will know what that means."

Of course, I thought. Al-Tayr, the flying one, the eagle.

"David," asked Nefret gently. "What exactly does Altair look like? Is his hair curly like yours? Are his eyes darker or lighter?"

David looked at her strangely. For a moment, I thought he would laugh.

"His hair is curly, yes, but his eyes are lighter, much lighter. They are greener than the palm trees after rain. His skin is pale, like one of you Inglizi. Still, he is a beautiful child."

Shock upon shock. The poor boy must be of mixed heritage. No wonder Abd er Rassul made him hide from strangers. And no wonder that unscrupulous creature had thought of that particular line of work for the child. If young Altair looked half as beautiful as his brother – who was admittedly prejudiced! – thought him, he would garner a high price from el Gharbi's filthy business. Some foul perverts were known to have a taste for children.

"Very well, David. Rest here with Ramses and Nefret. The Sitt Hakim and I will bring your brother safely to you."

"Please go quickly, Father of Curses. My master is vicious. He will take his anger at me out on Altair."

I was deeply moved. This boy, who had clenched his teeth to prevent his whimpering while I cleaned and stitched his injuries, was begging freely for his brother's safety. He would not beg again, not if I could help it.

Emerson, Abdullah and I, along with a few of our men – the rest had been left to guard the dahabeeyah – rode swiftly to Abd er Rassul's home. I instructed Feisal, a cousin of Abdullah's to wait half an hour and bring the car. We did not want the noise to give our presence away.

As we neared the place, we could hear screams and shouting from within the house, even across the courtyard. Dismounting quickly, I gripped my trusty parasol. I could see Emerson itching for the chance to beat the disgusting forger. Truth be told, I was feeling somewhat violent myself. I imagined with great satisfaction the sound of the steel shaft of my parasol meeting with Abd er Rassul's head. I quickened my pace. I wanted to enact that fantasy as soon as possible.

As the door burst open under Emerson's considerable strength, the struggle in the room beyond halted. I caught only a short glimpse of dusty black curls dripping blood onto the floor before Emerson leaped on Abd er Rassul with a roar and proceeded to strangle the forger.

"Emerson, stop!" I shouted. "You may trample the boy!"

With a final shake, my husband threw er Rassul at the wall, before kneeling and gently feeling for the pulse of the battered child on the floor. Quickly opening the bag of emergency medical supplies I had brought with me, I began to check Altair, trying to see if he was injured too seriously to move. My knowledge of medical practices was, after all, the reason I was often addressed as Sitt Hakim, or Lady Doctor.

Thankfully, the majority of Altair's injuries were bruises – I could find no broken bones. The blood seemed to be from a cut on his head. Looking around, I saw the table that the child must have hit his head against. Gently wrapping his head in a bandage, I assured Emerson that it would be safe to take him to the dahabeeyah with the car moving slowly. (By that time, Feisal had brought it along.) There, I would be able to clean and tend to the child more thoroughly.

It was a solemn procession that made its way to the dahbeeyah, with Altair lying unconscious in Emerson's arms. He would let no one else handle him, not even the child's grandfather (as we supposed Abdullah to be). The poor thing was probably pushed from awareness by pain. A bruise is a large injury for a five-year old and he was both small for the age his brother mentioned as well as covered in bruises.

Dear Fatima, Abdullah's daughter-in-law and our housekeeper, had already set up a small bed in the room given to David and Ramses, anticipating my desire to let the child have a familiar face nearby to comfort him. Evelyn, my dear sister-in-law, was waiting for us there. The dear girl had the presence of mind to take one look at Altair and phone Dr. Willoughby to come at his earliest convenience, to examine both Todros boys.

Working gently, she and I quickly had Altair washed, medicated and bandaged, his anxious brother peering at us from his bed. David's description had been accurate: Altair did indeed look like 'an Inglizi'. He gave me pause for a moment when I came across a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. It was a mark famous in the world I had married into. But surely it was just a coincidence.

Youth is resilient. Soon enough, Altair was stirring. At the first small grumble, David had flown out of his bed to his brother's side. Therefore, we did not see the child's face at first. What we did see was a pair of bony arms slung around David's neck, as Altair buried his face in David's chest, while gabbling away in Arabic, asking what was happening to them.

After some reassurances from David, a small head peeked around David's body. I inhaled sharply.

I had only seen eyes that shade of brilliant emerald once before, when I met Lillian Potter, Lady Gryffindor, at one of the few wizarding events I had attended. There could be no mistake. The eyes, the scar, even the name . . . all this time, I had been thinking of it in Arabic, Al-Thayr. But of course, in English, it was Altair. Hadrian Altair Potter. Somehow, this malnourished, beaten child was the one hailed as the Saviour of the wizarding world.


End file.
